


Sacrifice

by orphan_account



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Consent Issues, F/M, Mentor/Protégé, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 10:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11011182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Marinette will do anything to maintain the status quo.





	Sacrifice

She goes through the motions all too easily. Visits him outside of office hours. Smiles and appears flustered at his confusion. Bows her head and asks for his time. Look abashed when he allows it and lets her into his house.

Adrien isn't home. He has an overnight shoot in another province. Marinette knows because Nino told her. It's good. She's timing it well.

She won't be able to look at Adrien ever again. He probably won't want to either.

Her heart is pounding. He is perceptive. He will catch on. That is what she wants. That is what she needs. Let him think he knows. Let him come to her.

His office is spotless as always. He sits behind his desk, but stands to greet her.

"Would you like a drink?" He asks, courteous and charming as he always is on business.

This is not business.

She inhales deeply. Shakes her head. Looks every bit as nervous as she feels. It is true and it is what he must see in her.

He shows concern. A slight lilt in his voice.

"Is something the matter?" He asks, voice dropping. She inhales again. Breathes out slowly.

Nervous. Nervous. That is what he must see. She bites her lip. Looks vulnerable. Looks pitiful.

She folds her hands. She's got nothing but a tiny purse around her shoulder. Tikki is not here. That is good.

"I have something to confess." She says, and her words come out in a mumble. He hates mumbling.

"What is it?" He asks. Concern?

A monster doesn't show concern. Not unless he has appearances to maintain.

She sucks in another shaking breath. Makes it obvious she's trying to keep herself calm, and failing.

"I've always looked up to you," she says, refusing to name him by title or otherwise. "You are my idol. The day your label picked me up as an intern was possibly the happiest day in my life." She sheds a few tears, and visibly struggles to maintain eye contact.

He is frowning. She can do this.

"And when you chose me as your apprentice. There was no greater honour." Her voice hitches.

"What are you saying, Marinette?"

She dries her tears. Appeal. She sniffles and pulls herself together. She steps closer. Closes the distance bit by bit. Breathes out.

"I've fallen in love with you." She whispers, and dares to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

She forces her head down, though she wants to see his face. Wants to know what he thinks.

It's done. Her future is over. But what else happens will depend on his reaction. If he doesn't follow her, she will have to ruin everything.

She keeps her head down. Stares at her feet. It's cool outside. Summer. She has low heels and a short skirt and an off the shoulder top under her jacket.

Appeal.

"Marinette." He intones, voice grave. "This is not acceptable."

She chokes out a sob. Nods. Tries to regain herself.

It is not fake. She is sad for another reason.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time, then." She says, eyes still on the floor. She takes a few steps back. "I'll be going."

She's only just turned, when he speaks.

"You ought to find someone your own age, Marinette."

"I don't think I've ever been attracted to people my age." She says, and he cannot see her lie.

His shoes click against the floor. He is behind her. She holds her breath. Hopes.

"This won't be accepted." He murmurs, and she shivers.

"I don't care." She says. "I understand if you don't..." Her words die purposefully. "But I do. And I will try to move on."

"I've yet to reject you, Marinette." He whispers. She freezes. Her disbelief is tangible.

She turns. Faces him. Looks up at him literally and figuratively. Meets his eyes. He is sombre.

"I find myself..." His hand rises to her face. Caresses her cheeks.

She wants to shudder at the touch. She does not. She leans into him. Smiles softly.

"Fascinated with you." He finishes. His eyes are warm. For once. She is pleased.

"Thank you." She whispers, even as she thinks that the only fascinating thing about her is her willingness to disgust herself.

"You're welcome, Miss Marinette."

She breathes, in, out. This is it.

"Forgive me," she whispers, to herself. Her eyes fall.

"There is nothing to forgive." He says, and tilts her head up. She meets his gaze. He is appreciative.

Go on.

"I'm sorry, still." She whispers. Her hand goes up to his chest. To his collar.

She stands on her toes and kisses him.

A test. Like all before this moment. The test before the final trial.

He doesn't respond, even as she kisses with a ferocity only driven by desperation. She does not falter. Will not falter.

All or nothing.

She waits for him to push her away. Almost hopes he does and equally hopes he doesn't.

So much is relying on his actions.

He begins to reciprocate. Moves his hand to the back of her head. Leans down so she can rest on her soles. Kisses back with a fervour and a passion she's never experienced.

Her heart is racing and her skin is crawling but it is not over yet.

She pulls back first. He allows her. Her face is flushed. Her lips are tingling. She diverts her gaze.

"I'm so–"

"Enough." He says, and she cuts her apology up. A shiver goes down her spine.

Do it. Do it. Do it.

She is embarrassed. She just kissed her employer. Her boss.

(Adrien's father.)

"We shouldn't do this." He says. Her heart sinks. It shows on her face.

"Please," she whispers, and tears begin anew. "Please." She does not speak his name.

"You're far too young. This will not be good for you."

"I don't care." She echoes, breaking into pity. "Please."

"You'll never have a normal–"

"I've never had a normal anything." She whispers. "Look at Paris."

He stills. Eyes darken. Her heart skips beats and she waits.

"Miss Marinette..."

"I know this won't be normal. I know it's not right from what society believes but," she sucks in a breath. Meets his gaze with seemingly newfound determination. "I love you. I want to be with you."

He is expressionless. Eyes her. She is shaking. She wants him to see.

"You'll never forgive yourself."

"I think I know myself better than you do." She says. His eyebrows narrow. She does not falter. She will not falter. "I'm not a child."

"You may as well be."

He is right. She is but eighteen. She's only just an adult. She does not know what is right for her. Not yet.

But she does know what is right for everyone. In the end.

She acts again. Will not cease until he pushes her away.

The only way. The only hope.

Her life is over regardless.

She kisses him again. Digs her fingers into his suit and kisses him like he is air and she is suffocating. Her skin is not her own and she does not heed to her mind.

He responds, just as before. Eager and earnest and holding himself back.

They break for a moment, she stares at him.

"You want me." She whispers through swelling lips. "Don't you?"

"One would be a fool not to." He replies, looking dishevelled and unfocused. A rare sight.

"Then why?"

"It's not right for you. You deserve better."

"I want you." She repeats. "And you want me. I don't care about the rest."

His gaze softens. She's wearing him down.

It is coming. It is coming.

He brushes a hand against her face. Rubs his thumb over her lips. Something falls over his face. Something she should fear. Something she does not.

Her heart has not calmed.

It will be worth it.

"You are stubborn." He says, and runs a hand through her hair.

No more pigtails tonight. She decided. No more remnants of herself.

"I'm determined." She corrects.

He manages a smile.

"You're naive as well."

"I don't care."

"Do you care for anything?"

He's mocking her. Isn't he. She blinks. Responds.

"I care for you." She says. Smiles. "That's all I need."

He is falling. He is breaking down. She needs that. Just some more. Then the trial.

He pulls her forward. Kisses her. Desperate. Needy. Wanting.

Disgust is all she feels. But it is necessary.

She instigates. The trial is nigh.

His tie is the first. Undone in a practiced way. He flinches, but she bites his lip and his arms are around her.

"I want," she pulls away, just enough to whisper, and she is shaking. "I want you."

"You're making a mistake," he says, but he doesn't stop her.

"I'm not a child," she repeats, even though she truly, truly is.

"Have you even–"

"Yes." She lies through her teeth. He knows.

"If we're to do this," he says, "It's best if you don't lie to me."

He tugs at her jacket. She takes it off, head resting into his chest.

"Here?" She whispers. It is night, but the interior is lit. The estate should be empty. She planned it so.

But it is nearing and she cannot allow herself to run out of this. She will not.

"Would you prefer a bed?" He asks.

Still mocking, she thinks.

"I don't have a preference." She does not address him.

"At least say my name, Marinette."

She sucks in a breath, and meets his eyes.

"Which one, sir?"

He frowns at her, she doesn't waver.

Let it work. Let it work.

"Very well." He says.

That is all the warning she gets. He picks her up with an embarrassing amount of ease. She flings her arms around his neck. He's carrying her as one would a bride.

She is not his bride. Far from it. But he doesn't know.

"If you have no preference," he says idly, and starts for the door. She's embarrassed.

"I can walk." She murmurs.

"I'm not too sure." He says, and she bites down on her tongue.

He can feel her shake or shudder. She cannot betray that anxiety. She will make it through.

They start up the stairs. No one is home. That is good.

They're silent. She thinks of why she is doing this.

It will work, she thinks. No matter what.

The only outcome this night will change is how things end. But regardless. They will end.

His bedroom is spacious and lush and she does not take time to appreciate the decor or the aesthetics. She must continue.

She wriggles and he sets her down, she tries to kiss him again but, for the time, he refuses her.

"If you've done this before, you know there are preparations."

She is already disgusted. What's more?

"And you can't tell me you don't care when your health is at risk."

She doesn't, really, but he is pinning her down with a stare and she can only nod.

Even outside of business, he is so very business like.

She doesn't care.

She pulls his arm, forces herself to kiss him. Tugs at his clothing insistently and does not cease.

"I'm stubborn, aren't I?" She asks, and her tone has gone rough. "I don't care anymore."

"You really should," he whispers, and his hands are going down her back.

"I'll learn my lesson in the future then," she says, because there is nothing left for her to lose.

He is hesitating. So is she.

"Please," she whispers, and hopes her pleas aren't turning him on. It would suit the monster, though. "Please."

He stares at her, frowns slightly, and says, "You're in a bad situation, Marinette."

"I trust you." She says.

"What did I say about lying?"

"Feel free to prove me wrong." She retorts.

All or nothing. Go big or go home. It's it.

She is nothing against him. He picks her up, uncomfortably this time, and tosses her onto the poster bed like she's a rag doll.

Maybe she is.

Then he's upon her. Kissing and sucking and working away at her clothing. She allows it, helps him, undresses him in return.

It'll be worth it, she repeats in her mind, it'll be worth it.

Her body is pleased. Willing. Pliable. Her mind is a thousand miles away, praying for the future.

"You're scared, aren't you?" He whispers into her neck. He's holding her up slightly, undoing the clips on her bra. Her skirt is still on. His button-up is half open. Her lips are buzzing.

"I won't be." She says, because he knows when she is lying. He does not know what she is doing.

"We can stop," is all he manages to say.

"I won't." She cuts him off, voice breathy. "I don't think you want to either."

She raises her knee just slightly. Brushes her bare skin against the still untouched dress pants. He lets out a breath.

"That means nothing." He says. She knows this. She pretends she doesn't.

"I don't want to stop." She says, and buries herself. "I've imagined–" she cuts herself off, closes her eyes and looks away. He is silent. Then chuckles.

"How long?"

"I don't know." She whispers.

Young, naive, vulnerable, too trusting, too willing to give herself up. That is what the world must see her as. That is what he must see her as.

Talented, ingenious, innocent enough to fall for a man who is literally her friend's father. Innocent enough to believe that sex is what defines a relationship, that love would always win.

That consent is given through causes and effects.

She hopes he is the monster she believes him to be. She hopes he will not put up a fight. She hopes he is so depraved.

She knows he is not. Not as he is. But she hopes his greed will convince him otherwise. As it has convinced him the past several years.

She slips off her bra, knows she must look very much so like a child, is counting on his morality to accept that, is hoping this all goes through.

In the end, this night only decides how they reach that fateful meeting.

He kisses her. Softly. Gently. Taking his time now. She responds. Inexperienced. Foolish. Childish.

Let him believe her lies.

He discards her skirt. Some part of her is glad. Some other part wishes he had fewer morals. Another retorts that he has none, only fakes them for society. For her.

She silences them and watches him undress. She is in her underwear, bare and open to him. He does not meet her eyes. Looks at her skin. She wants to flee. Her body does not betray her.

"It's not what you've read or seen in movies." He says, and his belt clatters to the side.

"I'm not stupid." She says. And she isn't.  She read her research. Knows what will happen. Does not care.

She doesn't matter anymore. The future does.

"Why are you so desperate?" He asks. She would be offended. He is right. She's already disgusted with herself. There's not much further to go.

"I've wanted you." She says.

"You always want what you cannot have." He says, and steps off the bed. She fears, but he is only removing his pants. She breathes.

"And now I'm getting what I want."

"You know, once you have what you want, there's no reason for you to continue wanting it."

He crawls back into the bed. Over her. He is imposing. Intimidating. She should be scared.

She is not.

"I'll just see." She says, smiles up at him.

Innocent.

So they all believe.

"If you want me to stop–"

"I won't."

"This isn't a game, Marinette."

"I'm aware." She says. "But I know. I won't want you to stop."

"You're saying that now."

"If I want you to stop, I'll say so."

"Good." He says. The word brushes against her face.

He kisses her. Soft and gentle and she wants none of it. Wishes he was less inhibited. Wishes he was as cruel as he was deep inside. Wishes he would just act instead of having to be convinced.

She almost wishes it wasn't her choice.

(It isn't, in the end.)

He is sweet and gentle and all she does not want.

His kisses leave her face, into her neck, past her collar, to the soft skin of her breasts.

She does not hold herself back. There is already so much to be hidden. Every gasp of surprise, hiss of confusion, and sharp inhale of pleasure is real.

She disgusts herself.

They don't speak. He is watching her. He moves and she reacts. She hopes he's enjoying it, because she is as well and the feeling is terrible.

He kisses her again, hand stopping for a moment. He's insistent, nibbling on her lower lip, other hand tangling into her hair, and she almost forgets.

His hand presses against her lower stomach. Sends shiver up her spine.

"Tell me to stop." His head slides and he whispers into her ear. His hands move further down. Under her panties, pass the stubble of shaven hairs.

"Don't stop." She says, even as her back is arching in what she hopes is fear and nervousness. "Keep going."

He kisses at her neck, she thinks he praises her, but he's pushing into the folds between her legs and she prays she can keep herself together.

"Don't stop," she says. "Don't stop."

He hums, kisses her sweetly, and presses a finger into her. It's only the tip, barely past the well-cut fingernail, and she freezes up.

She's practiced. So much. When she locked Tikki out and removed her earrings and hid in the washroom and bit into her arm. So many times. After initial hesitation and embarrassment and thoughts that maybe she should find another way.

"Don't stop. Just. Give me a moment. Please." Her words are weak. She tries to breathe. It's easier on her own, when she knows what she will do. She doesn't know what he will do. She wishes he wouldn't listen to her. Wishes it was out of her hands. But it's not.

"All right," he says. He kisses her again, against her jaw and her cheek and caresses her hair. She hopes he wants this. Hopes he will not hold back.

She breathes.

"Go on."

He does. Breath leaves her lungs, she hopes she dies of suffocation. He kisses her and kisses her and distracts her.

She lets her thoughts drift away.

She wants this, she thinks. Wants this so much. Wants it enough to risk her career, to give up her virginity, a pointless concept as it is on its own, to her boss. Wants him to fuck her and kiss her and love her until he lets his guard down.

She breathes. Imagines him filling her, recalls the way she fell apart when she had her first orgasm, when she couldn't breathe for a moment and everything was alive and she felt like she'd been shocked.

The finger moves, presses against soft walls, and she imagines.

Desperate kisses, pulling closer, needing more, needing each other. Him, unknown and stern and seemingly so cold. Her, childish, weak and with a hidden agenda.

She bites down on her finger, when another pushes into her. He takes her hand and drags it to the side. Pins it down. Breathing seems hard.

"You'll be needing those for work." He says, and kisses her palm. She smiles.

"Sorry."

The fingers inside of her move, she's relaxing and it'll be okay, it'll be okay, it'll be okay. He's kissing at her neck, going lower to her breasts, and bites at a nipple lightly. She flinches. He begins to suck at it. She grits her teeth.

"Show me you want this." He pulls away to whisper.

She doesn't need to, she thinks, but this is her doing. She will.

His fingers are still moving. Her body is on fire. Maybe from embarrassment, or fear, or arousal. He releases her hand to prod at her breast. He drags his teeth along sensitive skin and she can only gasp in shock.

"Please," she whispers. "Please, please."

"Say my name," he replies, and pushes another digit into her. She shuts her eyes, tries not to swear and remembers to breathe.

"Gabriel?" She tries. The name isn't right. She doesn't use it when he's not present. She doesn't use it when he is. It's always Gabriel Agreste, or Monsieur Agreste, or Monsieur Gabriel at best. Sir, is another term of reference.

"Good." He says, and kisses her once more. She's certain she will cry. She hopes he won't notice. "Tell me to stop."

"I don't want you to." She says.

"You really should, by now."

"I don't."

"You're terrified."

"I'm not."

"You don't want this, do you?"

She would reply, but he's pulled out his fingers, and she shakes.

"I do, I do."

She won't let things fall apart now.

"Why are you still lying to me? To yourself?"

"Please," she sounds as pathetic as she wants him to see. She stares into his eyes, blurry. "I do want this."

"You have something planned, don't you?"

"I don't." She says, and her heart is going to kill her.

"But you do." He says, and his voice is dropping. She is not afraid. She is not afraid.

"I swear I don't. I promise I'm not lying."

He hums, nonchalant, and pulls away. She blinks, raises her head to see him. He grabs her legs, and bends them at the knee. She forgets to breathe.

"You'll hate this forever, you know."

"I won't."

"More lying." He sounds disappointed in her. It means nothing by now.

He's taking off his boxers. She looks away. Stares at the ceiling. Wishes the lights were off.

Worth it. Worth it. It will be worth it.

"Tell me to stop."

She snaps.

"I haven't told you yet, so–"

He pushes in, and she screams without meaning to. Even dazed, thrown off guard, she yells at him not to stop. He doesn't, but he slows, patiently. She clenches her jaw, grabs fistfuls of the bedsheets, and wishes he wasn't just staring at her in front of him.

Her breaths are shallow and she tries to think, to remember. She's doing this for the future. She's doing this for everyone.

She's not ready when she tells him to continue. She groans in pain when he pushes in. Her knees slide around his waist and she is grateful when he leans back over and kisses her once more.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" He asks, not moving but continuing to distract her with butterfly kisses.

(How appropriate.)

She doesn't respond. Arches against him. Tries to relax.

"Is it as some form of self deprecation?"

She shuts her eyes, refuses to look at him, and breathes.

"Are you trying to hurt yourself?"

"Just fuck me already," she whispers, turning her head to the side even though her eyes are already squeezed shut.

"I, unlike you, have some semblance of self-control." He says.

Mocking. Always mocking. She's done with it all.

"You're already inside of me," she says, and her face is on fire. "Just please," she doesn't mean to sound polite, "fuck me already."

"Vulgar." He sighs, "Of course you are."

She forces her eyes open just so she can glare at him.

"I'm not a fragile doll or something–"

He pulls out, pushes in, and she bites down on her lip.

She shouldn't. She should be vocal. Should let him know. Should make him lose control.

But then he kisses her mouth, insistently, and she thinks maybe it could work.

She muffles her cries, though she cannot stop herself from throwing her arms around his shoulders when the pain bleeds into a little bit of pleasure. She's certain she is crying a little, but he's kissing at her neck, one hand gripping her thigh and the other hand looped under the top of her back. He nibbles at skin and there is a lot to process.

She hears herself and feels shame and tries to convince herself it's just natural. It's what would happen. It's what is happening. He's thrusting hard, she's physically shaking, and she thinks of the future.

"What do you want?" He asks over her gasps and moans and she is wholly disgusted with her choices.

"I want you," she recites, and then a burst of pleasure travels up her body and she digs her nails into his back.

"Liar," he whispers, and hits that place again. He's heaving, too, and she's losing her head.

"I'm not," she says, and presses a hand over her face because she cannot believe she is–

She cries out, and then he bites into her shoulder. Teeth don't hurt, but everything is amplified and she thinks she might die.

"Tell me the truth," he demands, and she will not. Nothing will make her admit her plans.

"I-" her brain skips, "am!"

His hand moves up, tangles in her hair, and pulls. She yells.

"Tell me."

"I just want," she says, but she's still aware. She's bucking her hips with his thrusts and she hates it. "I just want you."

"No, you don't."

"I do, I swear."

Her eyes are shut. Her breaths are ragged. They are still moving and she is going to die die die–

The world freezes, and then shatters. She's pressing the back of her head into the mattress, a drawn-out cry escaping her throat. Things go fuzzier than they were. Her mind blanks, except that it is not over.

He kisses her, hungry, and touches her.

"Do you really think," he murmurs, and he sounds both too far away and right inside of her head. "You're the only one who has tried sex to get something you want."

She makes to respond, but he kisses her silent and doesn't stop and everything is too much too much too much–

He only lets out a soft groan into the kiss, and warmth fills her. It'd be reassuring, if she wasn't ready to cry. His hands slam down onto either side of her face, and he breathes heavily, breaking the kiss.

The world is still not right, and they're both silent. Panting, gasping, and she wants to die.

He pulls out, she grimaces at the sounds, though the feeling is somehow reassuring of all things. He rolls to the side. Her knees ache. She hates herself.

She's still trying to pull herself together.

"What is it you want, Marinette?" He whispers, voice ragged.

She closes her eyes. Cannot tell the truth. She considers feigning sleep, she is so so tired, but there are still things to do.

He embraces her, pulls her into a hug. She's not thinking.

"I want it to end." She murmurs, vague. Relaxes into his hug. Tries not to cry.

What has she done?

It'll be worth it, she believed. It'll be worth it in the end.

It is not the end yet.

"You're a bad manipulator." He murmurs, and still kisses her. Kisses the side of her face and rubs circles over her thigh. "What drives someone like you to this?"

Cannot tell him will not tell why oh why wasn't he selfish?

"It's for the best." She whispers. Her skin is crawling. Stop talking. Lie. Stall. Wait.

"Details," he prompts.

"I can't."

He doesn't stop comforting her, but his voice changes.

"Did someone put you up to this?"

"Of course not," she replies. No one did. It was her choice.

"Why don't I believe you?"

"You're not a trusting person." She is not thinking.

He laughs, though.

"You're not wrong."

And despite it all, despite what must happen, what should happen, she finds herself dozing off. Tries to fight against the allure of sleep, tries to remember it is not one yet, but his kisses are soft and he's still massaging her thighs and...

She passes out.

He looks at her, tuts in disappointment, and gives himself a few more minutes before he calls her parents in case they're worrying where she is.

Then, perhaps, she needs to meet someone.

* * *

She wakes up on a cloud. Under weight sheets. It takes a moment. She had a dream. Something inconsequential and fantastical and made up. It gives way to the reality.

Her head spins when she sits up suddenly. Oh god. She'd done it and missed her chance.

The world tilts, she feels like she's gonna be sick.

She tumbles out of the bed, shakes off the impact of hitting hardwood, and scrambles to her feet.

Not her room. Not his room either. Where?

"You're awake."

Cool, calm, professional, feminine. She turns.

"Nathalie," she croaks. She has no explanation. "I'm really sorry, but can you get me to the washroom."

Nathalie's face is hazy, but so is the rest of the room. The figure steps closer, takes her arm.

"It's all right," Nathalie says, it's comforting. "Steady, now."

Walking is a pain, her legs hurt. It takes a moment for her to realise there is no semen dripping down her thighs. There is a nightgown over her shoulders that is not hers. The panties are too soft, not hers either. She wants to puke.

"What happened?" She whispers, even though she hopes so desperately Nathalie doesn't know the truth.

"Monsieur Agreste said you showed up on the estate late last night. You were ill."

She nods. It's a terrible lie. She could lie better than that.

"This way."

The cool tiled floor is comforting to her feet.

"Would you like me to stay with–"

"I'll be fine, thank you so much Nathalie. I'm really sorry for inconveniencing–"

Something rises in her throat and she takes three steps to vomit into the toilet. It's acid and bits of food from dinner last night and shame.

Shame.

She failed.

She's crying, her body is too warm and the porcelain is a bare comfort.

Nathalie pulls her hair back and out of her face.

"Shall I call for a doctor?"

"Please don't."

She heaves, oh god, she is a mess. She was so close and she failed. It doesn't even matter what she did because she didn't pull through and it'll have to end the other way and–

Nathalie rubs a hand against her back and she sobs.

"Do you know what happened?" She whispers. She hopes the secretary doesn't. She hopes she does, too.

"I can infer."

More fluid comes up her throat and it burns.

"I understand I'm his secretary," Nathalie begins. Her voice is softer. Kinder. "But if you'd like me to call the police–"

"No," she tries to say as bile pours from her mouth. She spits. "No, don't. It wasn't him."

She closes her eyes and wishes she were dead.

"That's what everyone says."

"Please believe me," she whispers. "When I say it is all my doing."

Nathalie doesn't, of course, but she rubs comforting motions into her back.

She feels just a little bit better.

"Where is he?" She asks, when she's certain there is nothing left to vomit.

"His office." Nathalie says. "He looked... bothered."

"Of course he does." She mumbles. Nathalie says nothing. She breathes. "I'll be fine now. Thank you. Truly."

"There are unopened toothbrushes under the cabinet," Nathalie says, ceasing her comforting and pulling away.

"Thank you." She whispers.

Nathalie's heels click-clack away.

"I hope you get better," she says, and then closes the door.

She laughs into the toilet bowl, and flushes the expelled contents of her stomach.

"I hope so too."

* * *

He's made her breakfast, Nathalie says. And sent her clothes to be washed. She nods and thanks her and pokes at the bits of expensive food.

She didn't even take her phone with her.

She doesn't eat very much, even though the Agreste family's chefs are always so amazing. Every mouthful fights its way down and she has not stopped shivering.

Failure, failure, failure.

Nathalie returns with her clothes. She smiles and thanks her and reminds herself to burn them.

"I can get someone to drive you home," Nathalie says. She shakes her head insistently.

She doesn't want to stay. But she cannot return to her old life so soon after the fact.

"I'd like to speak with Monsieur Agreste. If he's not busy?"

Nathalie nods, pulls out a phone and speaks off to the side.

She tries to remember how to breathe. All she can remember are his hands over her skin and the persistent demand.

Tell me to stop.

She can't give up yet. She hopes.

"Monsieur Agreste will see you in his office." Nathalie says, detached and cool.

She nods. Thanks her. Leaves with a half-finished plate. The few bits she managed to eat threaten to escape.

Try. Try. Try.

She enters the office, and frowns when the lights are off and the curtains are drawn. There's only the scarcest bit of light. The room is blue.

He stands at the back of the room. She can't tell if he's facing her or not. She closes the door. The room is darker. She can barely see his silhouette.

What type of trick?

"What is it you wanted from me last night?"

She prepares to lie. Pretends to deny.

Except she doesn't.

"I wanted your Miraculous."

Her mouth clicks shut and she bites her tongue. Cold washes over her skin. She was not supposed to say that.

"Why?" He asks. Cool and calm and she is not.

"You're the Papillon," the words tumble from her mouth kicking and screaming. She slaps her hands over her mouth but the words are kidnapped through her fingers. "I was going to stop you."

"What made you think you could?"

Cool, collected, terrifying.

Everything is telling her to run. Just like the night before. She can't. Not out of duty. She just can't.

She bites down hard on her thumb and tries to silence her responses. This is not right. Something is wrong.

"I thought I was strong enough," does not even come out right, but he's heard her clearly.

What is happening? She needs to go, now. But her feet are rooted in place and she couldn't move if he pulled out a knife and threatened to kill her.

"You were." He says, and he turns. His silhouette gives him away. The decor over his chest that spreads over his shoulders. She begins to cry.

It's over. No Miraculous to protect her, no Ladybug to transform into. He's going to kill her. He's going to destroy Paris.

"You're scared." He says.

Her words are tearful.

"Of course, I am."

She won't tell him. Won't tell him who she is. Even though so many will suffer. To keep him from winning? From destroying everything?

Is that her decision to make?

"What will you do now?" He asks. Descends the steps. Approaches her. She still can't move.

"I don't know." She says, and there is blood in her mouth. She's broken the skin of her thumb. She'll bite her own fingers off to keep him from knowing.

"Don't hurt yourself," he chides. Closer, closer. Takes her hand, pulls it out from her mouth. "You need your hands."

No, she doesn't. She won't soon.

"Tell me what you feel."

She tries to keep it in. Can't.

"I feel like I'm going to die if you don't kill me first."

"And?"

It's like a leash and collar that tugs her forwards. Forces her to speak the truth.

"And I'm terrified of what you'll do to my family. And to Paris."

It's not enough, he is not satisfied. She sobs through her words.

"I'm so scared. I thought I could do it. I thought it'd be worth it in the end if I could just take your Miraculous and stop you and no one would know and I could just run away and leave all of this behind."

"What do you think of me, now?"

She laughs. She doesn't mean to.

"You're a monster. You're a manipulative monster under a power trip. You're causing mayhem and chaos and killing people to achieve your goals. You've ruined the lives of so many and you know that."

"What do you think of Gabriel Agreste?"

"I didn't want to believe it was you. You were harsh and cruel and strict but you didn't seem like a murderer, a killer. I didn't want to think it was you, I didn't want Adrien to learn it was you. I wanted to keep everyone else from knowing, I wanted to stop you discreetly."

"And what would you have done, failing?"

He's closer to her. Breath tickling her skin. His hand slides up her arm. He's behind her. He holds her.

"I'd tell the police."

"And they'd believe you?"

"Yes."

He chuckles. Does not know. Will not know.

"It's not the first time a civilian will have accused someone of being this city's super villain."

"It would have worked."

"Then you're just as naive as you made me think."

He grips her jaw, turns her head, kisses her. For the first time, she recoils, tries to pry herself out of his hold.

But he is a super villain, and she is but a normal human girl.

He's not gentle and kind anymore. He's angry and she can feel it and her heart is seizing and she's going to die.

"You're afraid," he murmurs, and she flinches at the clear tone of amusement.

"You're a monster."

"I told you to tell me to stop."

"That's not–"

He kisses her again; her neck is hurting. He doesn't care, now.

"Is this your power?" She whispers, still struggling, still resisting.

"How do you think Ladybug and Chat Noir get people to listen to them?"

"Through honesty," she tries to snap, but he pries aside her jacket and sinks his teeth into her shoulder. She screams, struggles in his hold. Pain, pain, pain.

Teeth go deeper. A spark of pain. Blood. He's bitten through skin. She cries.

"Naive." He says, and jerks her head back to kiss her again. Blood on his teeth. On her lips.

"Monster." She replies. She won't die. She won't die. She won't let him win. "Why do you do this?"

"You lied to me."

"Why do you hurt Paris?"

He scoffs, picks at the wound on her shoulder.

"Take off your jacket." He releases her. She barely keeps herself upright.

She shakes. Doesn't want to.

"Do it." His voice is dangerous. Compelling.

"This isn't like Ladybug and Chat Noir." She whispers, and slips out of her jacket for the second time in his office.

"Would you know?"

"Yes."

He laughs through his nose.

"You could have found another way." He says. "You could have run. You could have gotten away with this."

But she didn't.

"I didn't lie when I said you fascinated me, Marinette."

She flinches. Doesn't like her name on his tongue. He's staring at her, in the darkness. Watching the blood clot over her shoulder and her frame tremble.

"You're impulsive, don't think things through. You could have at least practiced a little more with seducing people and stealing their belongings."

"That Miraculous doesn't belong to you." She says, and his inaction is worrying her.

"Oh, but it does." He says. "Just like you."

Something hits her. Pitches her forwards onto her hands and knees. She tries to escape, but he pins her down. Too strong. Too overpowering. Even as Gabriel she wouldn't have stood a chance.

She grits her teeth. Swears she will make it out alive.

"But go on," he says into her ear, and slides a gloved hand down the back of her skirt. She freezes. "Tell me to stop."

"Please, don't." Her heart is going to burst out of her chest she is going to die no no no no–

"Tell me to stop, Marinette."

She presses her cheek against the cool floor and digs her fingers between the tiles. Bites her lip. He lifts up her skirt. Presses a finger against her through the new panties. She whimpers.

"Don't."

"Exact words, Marinette."

"Why?" She bursts out. "Why?"

"Because you've never said no to me in all the time I've known you."

"If I ask you, will you listen at all?"

He hums into her neck, presses a little more insistently. She is still frozen. He pulls down her panties. He's cold against her. Of course he is. He presses a finger in and she can't.

"Stop." She whispers, "Please stop."

She expects him to continue. To tear her apart and break her down. To ignore her because she can't do a thing against him.

He stops. Removes his hand. She shakes.

"You listened." She murmurs into the floor. Not over yet. Surely he isn't so kind–

No, no, he's not being kind. Listening to her is not being kind. It's common decency.

"You told me the truth." He says. She chokes out a laugh.

"Did I have a choice?"

"Of course you did."

She shakes her head against the floor.

"I never have a choice in this. I've never had a choice to begin with."

"Meaning?" He prompts, and kisses her. Softly. Sweetly. She relaxes.

"I was chosen. And then I refused. When I went back I thought it was my own choice but it never was. You must save someone. You must help people. It's not a choice then. It's an obligation. My obligation to keep going, my obligation to keep fighting. My duty to keep protecting–"

He's compelling her again. She doesn't feel like she can lose much more.

"But in the end, I never had a choice. Not for this. Not for anything."

He's silent, a kiss on her bloodied shoulder.

"I need more than vague pronouns." He says. She hesitates. But the words go out.

"They chose me to stop you." She whispers. "They chose me as Ladybug." He resumes kissing her neck. "I gave up after I didn't purify the akuma the first time."

"You're a child." is all he says.

"I had to- save everyone."

"You're still trying to save everyone. That's what you tried to do yesterday."

She hiccoughs. She's tired of crying now.

"I thought it'd be worth it in the end if I could stop you and no one would know and Paris would be safe–"

"And you would never return."

"I wouldn't be able to look at anyone I knew the same way again. I won't be able to."

"I think you underestimated me. Overestimated yourself."

She breathes. Relents.

"I did."

He chuckles. It's unnerving. She wants to die.

"Child." He scoffs.

"You're still a monster."

He doesn't argue. Rises from over her. She doesn't flee. Falls flat to the floor and sobs.

"Where is your Miraculous, Ladybug?"

"Like I'd ever tell you." She manages.

"I know who you are now. Do you really think I won't threaten your family?"

She can't think of her family right now. Not of how disgusted and disappointed they'd be in her. Can't think of her friends nor her peers.

She pulls herself together. Sits up in the darkness and breathes. Too much. Too bad.

"I hate you."

"That was quick."

She stands, tries not to give into gravity. Turns. Faces him. Steps closer. Presses a shaking hand against his masked face.

"What do you think Adrien would think of you?"

"I'm doing this for him." He says.

"He won't see it that way."

"What he doesn't know, will never hurt him."

She closes her eyes, leans into his chest. Wraps her arms around him. He's rigid.

"Let go of me."

She trembles. Fights against the compulsion. She loses.

She drags her hands across his collar and swipes the Miraculous.

He reacts instantly. Snarls and lunges for her but his transformation is ending. She bolts for the door and the wood slams against the opposing wall. She runs blindly for the double doors and nearly trips down the stairs.

He is chasing her; her heart is going to explode. She can escape. She can make it.

The gates are closed but she does not care. Climbs up and vaults the black bars like she would as Ladybug. Her feet hit the ground harder than she expects and for a second she crumples to the ground. A black car pulls up and she doesn't stop.

"Marinette?!"

Her heart shatters at Adrien's voice. Confused, worried. She does not stop running.

She can't go home. Not yet. She tries to remember the way to Master Fu's place.

Adrenaline is fuelling her, pushing her. He won't chase after her himself, but he has money and she is but a child.

Cars honk at her for jaywalking and she does not care. She runs and runs and runs and then screams when something lands in front of her.

"Hey, hey! Calm down!" Blond hair, entirely green eyes, black suit.

"Chat Noir," she breathes, and her heart still thinks she's dying. "I'm–"

"Are you being followed?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. "I saw you running out of the Agreste estate." He rests a hand on her shoulder and she flinches. "Holy shit, are those teeth?"

She presses the butterfly brooch against her chest, and tugs away. It's Chat Noir, she tries to reassure herself. It'll be okay.

"I'm okay!" She says, and looks behind her worriedly. "I'm okay, I just, uh..."

And everything crashes down on her. She tries to speak, and all that comes out are tears. Everything she's done, everything she's ruined. She bawls and cries and presses the Miraculous against herself.

"Hey, hey," Chat Noir says, and his voice goes soft. He keeps his distance. "What happened? Can you tell me?"

"I'm going to die." She says, and she feels so much like it. She's having trouble breathing now. "I– I–"

She parts her hands and reveals the Miraculous. Chat Noir physically recoils.

"Did you–"

"You have to get it away from him. You can't let him get it back." She pleads, pressing it into his hands. "Please, keep it away from Gabriel Agreste."

Chat Noir's jaw drops. He's frozen and she can only cry.

"How did you...?" He whispers, "It's Gabriel Agreste?"

She nods, hiccoughs, her heart still won't stop and she feels she'll die any second now. She can't breathe.

"I tricked him," she says, simplifying. "I knew and I tricked him and he knows who I am and he's going to hurt my family and you can't let him near that Miraculous ever again, please!"

Chat Noir never would, but things are too fast and she is begging the world to make things right.

"I won't," he says, detached. "Do you want me to take you to your house?"

"I can't." She says. It's over. "Please, take me with you to Master Fu's."

Chat Noir blinks. Nods slowly.

"You're safe with me, Marinette."

She hugs him, clutches the butterfly brooch hard in her hands. He hugs her back, and it's the most reassuring touch she's had in the past twelve hours.

* * *

He drops her off at Master Fu's. Walks her in, says a terse hello, and is about to leave when Marinette grabs his arm and immediately flinches when he turns back to her.

"Please don't–" her voice catches at the words and she shudders. Closes her eyes. Tries to breathe. "Don't cause a scene. Please. Adrien just returned. I don't want him to know..."

His expression is unreadable. She releases his arm and hugs herself tightly. Master Fu is silent in the background.

"I'll make sure he doesn't see." Chat Noir says. "Stay here, princess."

She nods, mutely, and watches him go.

The door clicks. She gasps and fights to pull herself together. She turns.

"You've retrieved the Butterfly Miraculous." Master Fu notes. She can't meet his eyes. She only crosses into the room and opens her palm. The brooch has dug marks into her skin. He takes it gently.

"I didn't get the kwami." She says.

"It's of no matter." He says, warm and grandfatherly and she is so, so disgusted with herself. "You paid a price for this, didn't you?"

"It was worth it." She says. "I feel awful but it was worth it."

He nods, looking every bit his age.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right." She says. "It's over."

"Please stay here until Chat Noir returns. I'll make you some tea."

She sits down on one of the cushions, and pulls her knees to her chest. She cries and doesn't stop. He doesn't make her talk anymore. Offers her hot tea and tissues and puts on a soothing track on the gramophone.

At last, she falls asleep. Master Fu gives her a pillow and a blanket and does not leave her side.

* * *

"I'm calling the cops," is what wakes her up.

"No," has already made its way out of her mouth before she's even opened her eyes. "No, don't."

Her eyes are blurry, she can't see much. It's bright and someone touches her. She recoils.

"Don't call the police," she says, "That's the whole reason why I–"

"Marinette, breathe with me."

Her eyes are burning and maybe she's run out of tears now. She can't see clearly. Doesn't know who's talking to her. Chat Noir?

"Breathe with me."

Chat Noir breathes in, breathes out. She tries to follow him. Deep breaths.

Her heart rate slows. She's still worrying. She shuts her eyes and breathes.

"You're safe," Chat Noir says, except it's not Chat Noir. "You're safe, Marinette."

"I told him not to tell you," she wails to Adrien, kneeling next to her. His voice, how didn't she know?

"Chat Noir didn't." Adrien says. Marinette refuses to open her eyes. "I'm Chat Noir, Marinette."

"Oh- god–" she whispers, and her heart rate skyrockets again. "I told you, to your face, your father, I'm so sorry–"

Adrien shushes her, does not touch her, reminds her to breathe and she tries so hard to follow along.

"I didn't confront him. I asked him about what happened with you. He told me it was nothing and to forget about it."

"I let him– I made him–" She can't say the words, can't admit what she's done. "Oh god, oh god."

She hugs him tightly, cries into his shoulder. Hoped the world wasn't so cruel.

He returns the hug, rubs his hands up and down her back. She flinches, hard, and he freezes instantly.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispers, and only holds her.

"It's not you," she says. "It's not."

They sit there, awkwardly hugging. Everything is warm and everything is terrible.

But it's over, she thinks. It's over. She made it.

* * *

Gabriel Agreste is arrested weeks later. The police don't disclose the reason to the public. Marinette is grateful. He resigns as CEO and owner of his company and label, passes it down to his son, who is sombre and does not answer questions from the media.

Fraud, the rumours say. Of course. A business man like himself.

Marinette is grateful.

She doesn't design for a while. Even after she returns home to her worried parents, who fret at her disappearance and didn't she know she forgot her phone, why didn't she tell them where she was?

Even after Tikki takes one look at her and bursts into tiny kwami tears and flies into her face and apologizes for hours.

Even after Chat Noir appears on her balcony, and swears he'll protect her until his father is behind bars.

No one really knows. She does not say. Master Fu and Tikki can guess. Maybe Chat Noir has drawn conclusions from the bite marks in her skin.

It takes a while before she allows people taller than her to touch her. Before she doesn't flinch when her male friends give her friendly bises and hug her unexpectedly. Adrien is there to save her when Nino first slings an arm around her shoulder and Marinette freezes.

Alya doesn't know, either. No amount of prodding will get Marinette to speak. The girl is sweet. She's understanding. She respects Marinette's silence and lets the girl cry into her chest.

And through her, Marinette begins to relax when people rub at her back or card their fingers through her hair.

It's over.

The Papillon never resurfaces again. Adrien visits Master Fu's and drops off a terrified Nooroo, who breaks into tears when he sees Marinette. She smiles, she tries, but the kwami is inconsolable. Tikki and Plagg try, and Marinette remembers to breathe.

Adrien liquidates the assets of his father's company, sells everything and scraps the Gabriel label and doesn't look back. He tears down the house, even though it's a financial loss, and offers the land to the Parisian government.

He rents out an apartment instead.

And he tries to make amends on his father's behalf. With Alya's help, he donates the money from his father's company to the various akumatised victims. Pays for their ongoing therapy and donates the rest to charity. He tries to give Marinette a sum.

"I don't need it." She says.

"Just in case," he tries.

"Thank you. But I'd really..."

He gives the money to her parents instead. Tells them to do what they like. Asks them to use it to keep themselves afloat. To keep Marinette from worrying about finances. About her future.

They accept, and their eyes are sad, and Adrien accepts their offer of pastries.

Marinette still doesn't design. Not for a while. It frustrates her. But it was expected.

"Healing takes time." Master Fu says, and hands her a cup of tea.

"I think I might leave Paris," she says in reply.

"Alone?"

"Alya has a job offer in the States."

"I wish you all the best, Marinette."

She smiles. Sips at the tea. Nods.

They leave the next week. Marinette dozes off on Alya's shoulder and Alya can only smile.

"Take care of her." Adrien texted.

"Do you even have to ask?" Alya replied.

Marinette dreams of warmth and love and choice.


End file.
